


Home

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, M/M, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean tells Cas he can't stay at the bunker, Cas pays a visit to the dungeon.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/gifts).



> This was a round 2 entry for SRS 2013 and the prompt was to pick a song exemplifying your OTP and work it into a fanwork.

HOME

_Here is a page from the emptiest stage_  
 _A cage or the heaviest cross ever made_  
 _A gauge of the deadliest trap ever laid_

_And I thank you for bringing me here_  
 _For showing me home_  
 _For singing these tears_  
 _Finally I’ve found that I belong here._

 

It was a bit like being buried alive, with the exception that had you really been buried alive, eventually you’d run of oxygen and go to sleep – the sleep everlasting. There was a comforting certainty to that – death. Except when you couldn’t die, wouldn’t do it, refused to, because you were already a thing born out of the pit, and to the pit you could never return, except to rule it. A phoenix, born out of his own ashes – that was Crowley.

But it was lonely. Maddening, really. Stuck in this tomb, without even the certainty of death (or so he told himself because he knew, despite posturing, death was roughly 98% assured). Yes, sooner or later, he’d end up on the receiving end of the Winchesters’ demon blade. Crowley wondered which of them would finally do it. Would it be Sam? With his bottomless guilt and even more bottomless low self-esteem? Or Dean? With his martyr complex, and the desperate need to be loved that rivaled Crowley’s own.

 _No._ Crowley didn’t want to be loved. That was a lie – a lie he told Sam to get him off balance, yes. That was it. He did _not_ offer his neck for that final injection. Illusions, smoke and mirrors, that’s all that was. A ploy.

He wasn’t expecting _this_ though. Sure, a surprise was better than being stuck in the tomb. This wasn’t… how he expected to die. Perhaps a couple of years ago, maybe, but not _now_. He stared at the silhouette outlined in the doorway and felt his heart speed up.

He’d recognized the man by the shape of his head, the way it balanced precariously on top of his neck, almost as if it was too heavy a burden. And the way he would align his body as he stood, his stance a little too wide, a little too stiff, as if he was trying to appear his True Form height instead of Jimmy Novak’s 5’11” frame.

“Castiel,” Crowley finally spoke. “What an unpleasant surprise. I was hoping the Winchesters would have had the decency to finish me off themselves, instead of sending in the winged cavalry.”

The angel was refusing to turn on the lights in the dungeon, but then again, Crowley figured, it wasn’t as if he had really needed light to see. Angel vision and all that glorified god-crap, most likely. Bollocks. Probably still holding a grudge over their last meeting. Well, Crowley could take the pain, if that’s what it took before the angel finally put him out of his misery.

It was strange though – no trench coat, no suit. What the Hell what the guy wearing, anyways, and Crowley truly did mean _Hell_ \- what kind of a hideosity was this? Who allowed this?

And then Castiel had taken a few steps into the dungeon and Crowley smelled it on him.

“Who did this to you?” He didn’t expect to sound so indignant, but this… _oh_ , this made his blood boil.

“I can ask you the same thing, but I can take a guess. Only Dean Winchester would know how to properly torture the King of Hell.” Castiel didn’t sound angry, nor gloating either. He didn’t really sound like himself. He was…

“Someone broke you,” Crowley tilted his head to the side, trying to make out the man’s features better. “You smell like them. Blood and sweat and fornication.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound concerned.” He could practically hear the smile on the angel’s – no, the _man’s_ \- lips.

“You were… you brought on my downfall once. Well, close to it. It should have been me. This vengeance should have been _mine_. But you’re… _human_ now,” Crowley almost choked on the word ‘human’ and tried to lean in closer to see whether there was a chance he may have been mistaken. “Where’s the fun in that, Cas? Where’s the challenge?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Castiel replied, thoughtfully. “They left you here, all trussed up, shackled and bound, with only your own thoughts for company. I could just stab you, and it would all be over.” He could. Crowley could see the edge of the angel blade in the man’s hand. That would do it.

“So, do it, angel.”

“You said it yourself. I’m not an angel anymore.”

“Yes, and I’m still bloody miffed over it,” Crowley wrinkled his face in indignation. “What a sad sack you make. And what happened to your clothes? Surely Dean could have at least lent you some of his own threads. You look like a blasted hobo.”

“I am a bit of a sartorial nightmare, aren’t I?” Crowley heard the smile again. A sad one. It reminded him of the old Cas. The Cas he had known back then, the Cas he had juiced up with the souls of Hell, he also had a hidden, sad smile. Like he knew something you didn’t know.

That he was a treasonous piece of shit, apparently.

“Just get it over with. You must be itching for it, after our last meeting.” Crowley would die, but he could still do it on his own terms. He wasn’t going to let that bastard see him break again.

He came close, right into the demon trap, his feet scuffing the floor softly, and Crowley could finally make out the features of his face. Castiel needed a shave, and a good night’s sleep, by the looks of it. His hair smelled like whatever the hell passed for shampoo in the Winchester household. Probably Head & Shoulders.

“This is all going a little overboard, don’t you think?” The former angel asked, gesturing with the blade over the span of the demon’s body, and Crowley tore his eyes away from the stubble-covered neck (too long, too supple, should have wrung that thing when he had the chance, long ago). And suddenly, Crowley had his lap full and Castiel was straddling him.

Well, that was another surprise. This night was becoming fraught with them.

“Wha - what are you doing?”

“I mean, did they really have to put you in this demon trap, handcuffs, _and_ chain you to the floor by that collar?”

Castiel’s fingers ghosted against his neck, past the rough leather of the collar. It didn’t exactly hurt, but he could feel the markings on it as surely as he could smell the humanity all over his old business partner. It was degrading, that was the whole idea. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed it, but now, underneath the weight of Castiel’s gaze, he felt it for what it was: the final insult.

He felt one finger slide in between the collar and his neck, sending a wave of something far too close to relief through Crowley, relief and something else. Confusion.

“I thought this might be my new home,” Cas mumbled, his breath a warm tickle against Crowley’s ear. “But it’s just another prison. And he likes it, you know. He enjoys hurting us. I thought he was different, but now that I am no longer blinded by the burnished shine of his soul, I can see him more clearly.”

“Who?” Crowley was shaking. The feel of Castiel’s thighs astride his own, being pressed chest to chest to him like this, the intimacy of the angel’s gravely voice practically spoken against his own lips, it scrambled what was left of Crowley’s brain. “What are you on about?”

“I have to go,” Castiel continued, thoughtfully, finger still brushing against the skin of Crowley’s neck, underneath the collar. “He told me I have to leave. Some cockamamie story about how it’s not safe for them if I say here. But I guess this place is safe enough to keep the King of Hell imprisoned, isn’t it?”

Ah, a lover’s spat. Crowley was beginning to understand. Dean had thrown Castiel out? Well, that part didn’t make any sense on the surface of it. But it did explain the de-winged bastard’s odd behavior, to some extent.

“Had to see for myself though, before I take off.”

“Cas…”

“Shut up, Crowley.”

Cas removed his finger and rummaged for something inside his pocket. Crowley realized with ever-growing amazement that it was a key.

“You’re not an animal. He might throw me out like a dog, but I won’t let him keep you chained to the floor like one.”

Crowley felt the air against his neck, the collar tossed to the floor carelessly. He could stand up now, could probably throw the arrogant fool clean across the dungeon, even with the handcuffs on. Castiel was human now. He could crush him, yes, beneath his teeth, just like he had said back then when he was Coo-coo-Cas. He craned his neck in as many directions as he could, reveling in the newly found motility, and then his hands landed on top of Castiel’s thighs which still straddled Crowley’s lap. Foolish angel. He looked up and saw Castiel staring down at him. Still and quiet and beautiful like the sun, even in the darkness of the dungeon.

And he knew why it had hurt so much back then, back when he was told to _flee or die_.

Castiel’s fingers brushed against the skin of his neck and Crowley suddenly felt more naked than ever before.

“So, this is revenge then?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

He made no movement to get off his lap.

“Against Dean? What about me?”

“What _about_ you?” Castiel asked.

“Aren’t you going to kill me? After what I’ve done to you?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I killed Meg! You remember Meg, don’t you, Cas? You had a thing for her, didn’t you?” He was pushing his luck, he knew it. Just because the former angel in his lap was warm and kept touching his neck and breathing against his earlobe, did not mean that in a flash the angel blade wouldn’t be shoved right through his windpipe, where Cas’ fingers were resting.

Cas’ head hung low, in some combination of shame and grief, perhaps. Crowley could never tell what was actually on the creature’s mind.

“Dean had omitted that,” Cas finally spoke. “He seems to omit many things.” He looked back up at Crowley and the demon saw his eyes grow soft again. “But I too have killed many of my brethren. We’re not so different, you and I. I suppose one difference is I didn’t really enjoy the slaughter.”

“I didn’t enjoy it until I lost you,” the demon admitted.

“I didn’t realize you ever had me,” Cas said, his voice devoid of cruelty even if his words cut Crowley like the angel blade itself.

“I liked myself with you. I worked hard for you. To please you.” He squeezed those words from between his teeth with the bile they deserved. He did not know why he was saying them now, but this was Cas, and perhaps for the last time they could be alone together. “I’m into the deal flow, not the violence. The violence is collateral, I’m an idea man. But when you… Well. I wanted to hurt her because you liked her. And I did.”

“Then that is just another sin to add to my already incredibly long list.”

“Don’t talk to me of sinning, Castiel. It bores me. You were never boring before.” He felt himself grow hard against the angel in his lap. “You’re not even really boring now.” He smiled, knowing there was no way this little erectile fact would go unnoticed.

“We did make a good team, didn’t we?”

A slow grind pulled Crowley’s attention even keener to his tumescent crotch. He forced his eyes away, away from the twin tent he could see growing in the former angel’s own pants, towards Castiel’s mouth. That sweet-talker.

“I would have honored my side of the deal,” Crowley said, feeling his voice breaking. If Cas had asked him for a list of names right now, he would scream them all into his mouth, he would cover his body in Enochian symbols of names, he would draw him a map to each one of their doorsteps, just to hear him speak some more, just to feel the brush of his fingers against his neck. He tried so hard not to think about it, but somehow it always came crawling back, this disgusting feeling of belonging he felt in the angel’s presence.

“I know you would have. And, for what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry. I know now what it’s like to be cast out by someone you considered to be your friend.”

“So… are you going to kill me or kiss me?”

“You _are_ a legendary kisser,” Cas smiled again, this time the smile wasn’t quite as dolorous.

“I do feel like you owe me, truth be told.”

“And I recently discovered that I’m quite fond of it myself.”

“Cas?”

And then Crowley felt both of Castiel’s hands slide along the sinews of his own neck until they locked at his nape and the next thing he knew there was the press of lips against his. Tentative at first, then bolder, tongue sneaking out inquisitively to brush against his upper lip, teeth grazing against his lower lip. He opened his mouth and let Castiel in, pulling at the hideous hoodie with his handcuffed hands, to bring his angel more flush against his body.

“Angel, have pity,” he gasped as he pulled away, his breath coming fast and shallow, like some rookie, not like the King of the Crossroads he once was, the sealer of thousands of deals. “If this is Dean’s idea of how to interrogate me, I swear I’ll give you anything you want. Just…”

“Stop. He doesn’t even know I’m here,” Cas’ hands were caressing Crowley’s face, lips still peppering smaller kisses against his mouth.

“Cas, what are you doing?”

“Whatever feels good?”

Crowley watched, as if through a fog, Castiel’s fingers loosening his tie to get at more buttons underneath, pushing the material of his shirt aside to press hot palms against his skin.

“I would have never thrown you out, angel,” Crowley whispered leaning forward, to brush his own lips against the stubbled jaw, to run his tongue down the unshaven curves of Castiel’s neck. “I would have taken good care of you, you know.”

“I know,” Cas mumbled, grabbing Crowley by the hair to force his head back, so he could return the favor by pressing heated kisses into the skin of his liberated neck, against the collarbones that had cushioned his collar, that would have chafed had he been any normal person and not the thing he actual was. “You did take good care of me.”

 _He remembered._ Crowley thought he might melt. He wasn’t even aware himself of the way he doted on Castiel until it was too late. He had been too generous, and when it was all over, he couldn’t be cruel enough to compensate for that blunder.

“I liked you. It was a mistake.”

Crowley felt Castiel grinding against him, through all the layers of clothing both their states of arousal as obvious as a gorilla at a ball. He wanted to wrap his arms around the other man, but his restraints were still limiting, and Cas was doing a good enough job with those elegant fingers, putting them places Crowley would never even think of as erogenous zones until he felt the press of them, seeking warmth, seeking shelter in the hidden parts of his body. Cas put them everywhere, those fingers, against the skin folds over his ribs, into his armpits, right into his bellybutton. It shouldn’t have been hot, but Crowley has never been so turned on in his after-life, which was longer than many previously had presumed. He craned his neck up to nibble on the former angel’s lower lip again, to feel his scorching, sugary, human breath against his face.

“Then it was a mistake we both made,” Castiel replied.

Why was he saying that? No, Crowley shouldn’t listen. He should just turn his hearing off. He should tear himself way. This was… this was ridiculous. Castiel’s fingers were now fumbling with his fly. They were reaching in, they were wrapping around his engorged cock.

“Oh… _Cas_.” He intended it to sound like a warning, to warn the naughty angel off his bits. Because if you stick your fingers into the King of Hell’s fly, they’re going to get scalded. But it wasn’t at all how it had come out. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he found himself saying, Castiel’s fingers wrapping tightly around his cock, pulling, caressing, first soft then rough, then forgiving and indulgent again.

But it had felt _good_ , didn’t it? To blow that hole into the bastard’s stomach, to reach in, with his _entire hand_ , beyond the wrist, thinking _I am inside you now_ , thinking _take it, take all of it_. And now…

“Cas!” his voice was broken. He wanted to beg, and he didn’t care what for. “Please, angel, _please_.”

“Be quiet. They might hear us.”

It was true. They might. Crowley imagined the look on the hunters’ faces if they walked in to find their best angel friend grinding wantonly into Crowley’s lap, hands full of Cock of Hell.

“Let me,” Crowley breathed into Castiel’s mouth. “My angel,” he repeated, eyes full of wonder, as he managed to get his own hands into the fly of those stupid cargo pants.

“You keep calling me that…”

“But you’ll always be my angel. I’ll find the bastard who did this to you… I’ll…. I swear, Cas…” Finally, _finally_ , he could wrap his own palm around Cas’ boner, to yank on it in perfect unison with Cas’ own hand on his own leaking cock. They were making a glorious mess of Crowley’s suit together, and he laughed thinking about what it would look like later when Sam or Dean found him in here again.

His angel’s eyes were glistening, Crowley suspected with unshed tears, but he wasn’t sure why. Of course, Castiel had much to cry about, by the sound of it. He had lost his Grace, his Home with a capital H, and now he had apparently been thrown out of what he hoped could be his surrogate home. But Crowley would make his lap Castiel’s home. His mouth, his hand, every orifice of his borrowed body could be Castiel’s home. He could burrow in, he could leave his toothbrush, he could decorate the walls in stupid cheesy photos.

“Don’t go,” Crowley said when it was over.

“I must.”

“Then take me with you.”

“I wish… I wish it were that easy.” He looked sad and pensive, but he didn’t look ashamed, Crowley thought.

“Then I will find you. If they don’t kill me.”

“Make sure they don’t kill you, then.”

Crowley laughed. His angel was adorable. An asshole, but still adorable. What a pair they might one day make.

“That’s as close as you’ll ever come to telling me you care, is that so, angel?”

But he had left marks upon his body that spoke louder than words. Marks that the Winchesters would see.

“Tell me this isn’t just about getting back at Dean,” he pleaded, careless of his famed pride.

He watched Castiel bend down and pick something up off the floor. The collar. For a moment he thought he was about to be reshackled with it, but instead, he felt the sizzling heat of Castiel’s mouth pressed against his again.

“We’ll find each other again,” Cas whispered against his lips. “This is where I want to be,” he added, his hand sneaking into the folds of Crowley’s shirt again to rest against his flushed skin. “This is where I belong.”

Crowley felt the last vestiges of his mind melting into a puddle of gooey goo. He wanted to say things he never thought he’d want to say. But it wasn’t the right time, and it definitely wasn’t the right place.

“All right, angel,” he finally responded, trying to drink in the last moments of Castiel’s touch, so that it would sustain him through the coming nights. He watched the man put the collar into one of the obscenely deep pockets of his cargo pants, and what passed for his heart beat like a caged bird with mounting love. “I’ll keep the lights on for you.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was enough. And it was more than either one of them deserved.

 

_God send the only true friend I call mine_  
 _Pretend that I'll make amends the next time_  
 _Befriend the glorious end of the line_

_And I thank you for bringing me here_  
 _For showing me home_  
 _For singing these tears_  
 _Finally I've found that I belong here._  
\- Depeche Mode – “Home”


End file.
